


Training Day

by youngchook



Series: Inquisition Drabbles [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Attraction, Banter, Bathing/Washing, Blackwall and Sera Banter, Drabble, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, Friendship, Mild Smut, Sera Being Sera, Sexual Tension, Sort Of, Training, not really but anyway, sera punches the inquisitor in the face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngchook/pseuds/youngchook
Summary: Zirael gets punched in the face.





	Training Day

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to FenxShiral for the Elvhen used!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Fenedhis - A common curse word. Literally translates to "wolf cock".
> 
> Ma serannas - "My thanks."
> 
> Ara melava son'ganem. - "My time is well spent." An intimate way of saying "you're welcome".

She wasn’t yet skilled enough to predict the blow as it came from her left, unable to protect her jaw from the shattering impact of Sera’s leathered fist. Zirael tasted blood, metallic and hot, as the blow reverberated through her head in an aching wave. 

“Fenedhis!” she cursed, stumbling back. Small wisps of hair, escaped from their braid, clung to the sweat of her neck. 

“Inquisitor!” Blackwall cried in alarm. His knuckles tightened on the fence of the sparring ring.

“Er, are you alright?” Sera asked nervously, walking forward to tentatively pat Zirael’s shoulder as she cradled her jaw with both hands. She could feel blood beginning to trickle from the corner of her mouth. Spitting a globlet of thick mass onto the grass, red vivid against tired green, she took unsteady steps to lean against the railing. Blackwall, on the other side, inspected her face. 

“Mmm,” he hummed, displeased, as he turned her head by the chin with gentle hands. “There’ll be an ugly bruise, but no serious damage. I told you not to hit so hard, Sera.” Blackwall eyed the blonde elf pointedly as his hands fell from Zirael’s face.

“Well it wasn’t my friggin’ fault!” she exclaimed indignantly. “You’re the one who wanted me to help her with all this combat training shite. I said it was a bad idea.”

“I wanted you to help me train her, not beat her to a pulp!” he gestured to the Inquisitor, still thumbing her jaw, in exasperation. 

Zirael held up a hand, silencing Sera’s retort. “Enough, both of you,” she said firmly. The two turned from each other to look at her, both of them frowning. She sighed. The close friendship between the pair had surprised her, though the more time she spent with them the more she came to note the similarities in their humour, their worldviews—even their tastes in serving girls. While she was fond of them both, their bickering often worried at her patience quicker than most. 

“It was my fault,” she continued, her tone softening. “I should have been able to predict the blow. It would seem I have more to perfect than we first thought, Warden.” She offered him a crooked grin, though she thought it must have been closer to a wince.

It had been her own idea to begin combat training once the Inquisition had settled at Skyhold. Melee training had always been part of her education as a youth. Though it was never as rigorous as the hunters or warriors of her clan, those gifted with magic were still required to keep themselves physically fit. A healthy body and a focused mind would always be able to draw from the Fade more easily than one laid to ruin by gluttony or greed, Keeper Deshanna had taught them.

Following the attack on Haven, however, and the revelation regarding the corruption of the templars, Zirael had insisted on being formally trained should her magic ever be neutralised by the enemy. She could not afford to be vulnerable. If she failed to protect herself in any given circumstance, she placed the power of the Anchor in reckless danger and thusly compromised the fate of Thedas as it hung in the balance. This was the argument that had inspired more enthusiasm from Bull, Cassandra and Blackwall in co-ordinating a training schedule for her. Today, Blackwall was to begin instructing her in hand-to-hand combat by first finding her a suitable sparring partner. Though Sera was of a similar height and weight to she, the elven rogue was far quicker, striking at her mercilessly as Zirael struggled to parry and evade her blows. 

“Truly, you were impressive for a whelp,” Blackwall said, smiling back at her. “It looks like we’ve got to work on your reflexes, though.”

“Slowpoke,” Sera sniggered. Zirael grimaced.

“I suppose we are done for the day, then,” she sighed. “Thank you both for your time.”

“Of course, m’lady,” Blackwall tilted his head.

“Inquisitor,” Sera drew out the word, lowering herself into a mocking bow. 

Zirael shoved her playfully, though the movement aroused a sharp protest from her aching muscles.

“I’m going to go and clean myself up,” she said, beginning to unstrap the leathers around her chest. “By your leave.”

The pair nodded in acknowledgement as Zirael turned to make her way to her quarters, continuing to worry at the buckles binding her chest piece in place. 

“Beardy,” Zirael heard Sera mutter as she walked away.

“Fluffhead,” Blackwall bit back at her. 

She smiled to herself as the sound of their laughter was drowned by the muted thrum of voices emanating from the main tower. The hall was usually filled with visiting dignitaries and pilgrims, and today was no different. Thankfully, on account of the talents of her ambassador, she was only required to deal with them in a limited capacity. Zirael did not find her schedule often allowed for her to spend time amongst the nobles of Orlais and Ferelden that made the journey to Skyhold, though admittedly she made little effort to change this. Whilst the likes of Josephine, Vivienne and Leliana thrived amidst the throes of the Great Game, Zirael herself was not such a creature. In truth, she dreaded the upcoming ball at the Winter Palace more than she allowed her advisors and inner circle to see. 

She let her thoughts wander as she made her way to her quarters, nodding to Varric as she passed and absentmindedly offering smiles to those other parties who sought her attention. She ascended the stairs to her room, peeling off the sweat-sullied leather chest piece and draping it over the stone bannister. 

“M’lady!”

Zirael started, inhaling sharply. A young elven woman, dressed in simple browns, regarded her with wide eyes as she stood dumbly in the centre of the room. Her arms were full of fresh firewood. She looked familiar, though Zirael could not place why. 

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” she continued slightly breathlessly, “It’s just—well, I noticed you’d gone off to train with Ser Blackwall and so I thought I’d take the opportunity to give the place a quick one-over. I noticed none of the other servants really come up here. I truly am deeply sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude or cause inconvenience, I was only trying to help Her Ladyship keep—“

“Stop!” Zirael cut her off, exasperated. She now recognised from whence she knew the girl. She was the elf to whom she had awoken back in Haven, after stabilising the Breach. The girl’s anxious chatter had roused her memory. She looked at Zirael in shock, mouth slightly gaping.

Zirael huffed with guilt, regretting her irritation. “I—sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I’m just… tired, I suppose.”

The girl nodded jerkily, saying nothing. Zirael bit her lip.

“What is your name?” she asked, trying to sound friendly.

“Irenna, m’lady.” The young elf moved to put the rest of the wood she held in the fireplace. 

“Irenna,” Zirael repeated. “Thank you, for taking the time to come up here. It’s very thoughtful of you.”

The girl laughed shrilly for a moment before stifling the sound with her hand. A bright blush began to stain the tips of her ears. Zirael could not help but smile at the her nervousness. She summoned flames within the newly cleaned hearth with a gesture, pretending not to notice Irenna’s slight, startled jump.

“I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with having servants clean my room as though I’m royalty,” Zirael murmured as she began to unwrap the leather bindings from her hands.

Irenna cleared her throat. “I can do as little or as much work in her quarters as m’lady wishes.”

Zirael considered her thoughtfully. “This is a large fortress, and there are many people here who have greater needs than I. The refugees, our dignified guests, the soldiers… I’m sure your tasks are many.”

“You have no idea, Inquisitor,” Irenna said before clamping her hand over her mouth again, eyes wide with mortified horror.

Zirael chuckled as she placed her hand wrappings next to her chest piece on the bannister. “You’re fine, Irenna. Stop worrying. And please, call me Zirael.”

The elf relaxed somewhat, running a hand through her short, dark hair. 

“I would prefer it if you busied yourself with our guests,” Zirael continued. “I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of maintaining order up here on my own.” She shot a look at her cluttered desk, just beyond Irenna’s shoulder, and bit the inside of her cheek as she spoke.

“Yes, m’lady,” the girl offered her a little curtsey. “Is there anything you require before I take my leave?”

Zirael hesitated. “Actually… perhaps, if you wouldn’t mind… a bath?” She could almost feel the residual perspiration on her skin beginning to sour.

Irenna brightened, her shoulders straightening. “Of course! I’ll go fetch a basin and some fresh water and soap and fragrant oil and—“

“Irenna.”

“Oh—right. I shall return with your bath at once, m’lad—er, Zirael.”

***

Solas rapped his knuckles on the Inquisitor’s door once, twice, thrice as he shifted his weight restlessly. He was anxious to present her with his proposal regarding how best to employ the Inquisition mages in uncovering rifts in the Veil, using the “elven artifacts” she had been activating throughout her travels. 

Truthfully, they were his design, reinforcements of the barrier that had locked away her so-called Creators—though they served another purpose now in preventing further disturbances in the Veil. Zirael had never questioned him on how or why he knew of their existence. At least, she hadn’t openly. He could only be thankful for that. There were only so many times he could use his travels in the Fade as an explanation for his peculiar knowledge of elves and magic. 

“Come in!” she called from within. There was a tense quality to her tone he could not place—irritation? He entered, closing the door behind him before ascending the stone stairs to her room.

“Forgive the intrusion, Inquisitor,” he said as he neared the top, “But I believe this is a matter that would be of great interest to you in your efforts—“ 

His next words were cut off by the soft hiss of breath he drew in between his teeth. Zirael stood in the centre of the room, by a wooden bathtub from which steam rose in a lazy haze. Her usually vivid red hair, darkened by the water, hung down her back in a heavy rope. Her pale skin was flushed a lovely red from the heat. She wore a thin silk robe, tied at the waist, which did little to conceal her form. The light coming in through her windows illuminated the curve of her muscled legs even as they were veiled by the fabric and, as his eyes unwittingly lingered on her body, he thought he could make out the faint circles of her nipples—

Blinking, he cleared his throat and fixed his eyes firmly on her face. “I did not realise this was a bad time.”

“I was almost finished anyway,” Zirael said dismissively, smiling. “I’ve been in there far too long.” She held out her hands somewhat sheepishly, showing him the pruned flesh of her fingers.

He returned her smile, folding his hands behind his back. “I had something I wished to review with you personally—though I believe it can be sent to your advisors if you have not the time.”

Zirael hesitated. “What is it?”

“A proposal. On how best to utilise the readings we have from the elven artifacts you’ve been activating.”

“Oh, excellent,” she nodded. “Leave it with me. I’ll look over it tonight and we can debrief in the morning.”

Solas offered her a slight bow, almost turning to leave before he noticed a deep shadow along the left edge of her jaw.

“What is that?” he asked, lowering his brow.

“What?” Zirael asked apprehensively as he closed the distance between them. Without thinking, he touched his fingers to the mottled bruise, ghosting his fingers over her flesh. 

“Oh… that.” She bit her lip. “I was training with Blackwall and Sera today. She has a rather nasty right hook.” She winced as he pressed lightly against the mark.

“Apologies,” he murmured, turning her face. “I can heal it, if you like.”

“I’m perfectly capable of healing my own injuries, Solas,” she said admonishingly, though a playful smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. “If you’d like to show off, though, be my guest.”

“The offer was not a comment on your abilities, Inquisitor,” Solas assured her, frowning at her teasing. She wrinkled her nose in disbelief by way of reply, though turned her head to the side in permission. 

Solas cupped the left side of her face, lightly gripping the nape of her neck with his other hand to keep her still as he sent forth a gentle tendril of magic into the offending bruise. She drew in a deep breath as the flesh began to repair itself, tissue and blood moving beneath his touch. The ugly, dark web faded, slowly at first, and then all at once. He let his magic dull as he withdrew his hand to study her. Her jaw looked smooth and clean. He smiled despite himself, pleased. Zirael met his gaze, tentatively pressing the spot with her fingertips. She grinned widely.

“All better.”

“Indeed,” Solas replied. 

Her bright eyes bore deeper into his as she continued look up at him. He suddenly became very aware of how close she stood. He could feel her breaths on his throat as they fell from her lips, see the beat of her heart throbbing in her neck. He wondered if the skin there felt as soft as it looked. She smelled of lily and lye. Clenching his jaw, he stepped back.

“I will speak with you tomorrow morning, then?” he asked smoothly, folding his arms behind his back.

“Of course,” she dipped her head in acquiescence. Her expression was light and open, though there was a faint crease in her brow as she studied him. He grimaced inwardly.

He had turned to leave when her voice stopped him.

“Solas?”

“Mmm?”

“Ma serannas.”

He smiled to himself, still facing away from her. “Ara melava son’ganem, Inquisitor.”

**Author's Note:**

> moreeeeee drabbles sorry homies :)


End file.
